


Hang my head, drown my fear

by wajjs



Series: in divine presence [3]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alpha Dick Grayson, Alpha Slade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Miscommunication, Omega Jason Todd, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: Slade didn’t really choose you as his partner.And he’s the fucking idiot that went ahead and for one hot minute forgot.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Series: in divine presence [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778017
Comments: 38
Kudos: 308





	Hang my head, drown my fear

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me so much and now I'm like (shrug emoji)

_Hang my head, drown my fear_

████ is the name of the god. 

𐎧𐏁𐎠𐎹𐎰𐎡𐎹

Cut in two. Divided. 

Spread over the foam of the ocean.

████ brought down. 

Severed. Divided.

From ████ come two.

𐎧𐏁𐎠𐎹𐎰𐎡𐎹

Arise from the depths of the ocean.

On the dawn of the fourth day, Jason grabs one of Slade's many duffel bags, packs the book, his helmet, his weapons and armor. He leaves wearing Slade's clothes that he might not return. The man himself left the day before, heat in his kiss, but not after having Jason on his tongue—over and over and _over._ Until all their tastes were intermingled. Until Jason had been bathed in Slade's scent.

He doesn’t flee but it’s close to running, the destination one of the closest safehouses back in dearest Gotham. The minute he sets foot inside he’s acutely aware he will only have a couple of hours (at most, if he’s being really generous) before they come knocking, asking where he’s been, what’s he been doing, why was he radio silent for so long. And those are all questions he would rather not answer, not right now, possibly never. The whole mess that comes with the truth the answers would reveal, is one he wants to very much avoid.

So the second before the minute he sets foot inside, Jason already has a plan of action determined in his mind. Mask his scent, cover Slade’s, hide his mark and keep the damn book out of sight. Everything else will come to him should it ever arise. For now, handling those things are his top priority.

It’s no less than thirty minutes later that he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation on its surface and applying a fresh bandage to the mark on his neck when he recognizes the telltale sound of steps coming from the living room. He allows himself the honesty of a tired sigh, pulling back up the fabric of his turtleneck, silently thankful the weather’s on his side this time. 

The scent blockers are all in place, he's done everything in record time, and yet he still feels… exposed. Forced into the spotlight.

Which is part of the things that do not matter, not now, because running away from these assholes is more hassle than it's worth. He needs to get them off his back again. To do that, he's got to face them now.

Jason's not even surprised when he steps out of the bathroom and into the living room to find none other than Dick Grayson there. He vaguely makes note that Dick is also in civilian clothing, yet it's still not something to write about. Leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, he says:

"Whatcha doing here, big bird?"

Dick's eyebrows are furrowed, almost coming to a meeting place right over the bridge of his nose. His stare is electric. Pulsating with energy, like a bloodhound before a hunt. Something begs for attention in Jason’s mind, a titillating warning sign—there’s something he must be missing, really, but he can’t think of what. That is, up until he sees the duffel bag on the floor right next to the couch in about the same moment Dick focuses on it as well. 

There is no disguising the way his heart speeds up and Jason can only hope the blockers are doing their job at covering the sudden change in his scent. The book, he hid it, that was the very first thing he did, but right there, clean white a stark contrast to everything else, is the shirt he stole from Slade and—

His hands twitch by his sides and he stops himself from doing anything too abrupt because he might be one foot inside a metaphorical grave yet he isn’t stupid enough to make his case worse. So he stays put exactly where he’s standing, watches Dick close the small distance between them and the cursed bag before picking up the stupid shirt Jason stupidly forgot to toss in the washer together with everything else. Or, well, it’s more like he forgot to hide it like a stupid fucking moron because let’s be honest, he really didn’t want to wash it, not when he’s still so tender from, from.

_Slade pressing him up against the wall in the shower, broad chest covering his back, and Jason tossing his head back just in time to—_

A fresh flush of heat boils in a simmering warmth inside his belly. Jason promptly begins his attempts at squashing it down. Honestly, his body has the worst timing ever. It doesn’t help that his mark under the bandages is beginning to itch.

“Little wing,” Dick’s voice has dropped a note or two and Jason’s rudely snapped back to the here and now. It distinctly feels like his soul is coming back into his body. “Why does this shirt smell like _Deathstroke?_ ”

Well, Jason thinks bitterly, fuck.

“How are you so sure it’s his smell?,” he snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s good at acting normal. _I got this._ At least, that's what he thinks. “You go around sniffing him whenever you guys fight?”

The knuckles in Dick’s hands whiten with the strength of his grip.

“Jason,” his voice is purposefully calm and collected, the biggest tell of all, inching to the wrong side of a warning. “Why does this smell like Slade?”

He shrugs, shifts his weight to the left. “What the fuck is it to you?” A spark goes off, quick as Flash himself, and suddenly Jason’s caught rethinking just about everything. If his words come out slightly rushed, like he’s fighting through a bubble of oncoming dread, well, it’s because he _is._ Fighting dread, that is. “You two are—”

“ _Jason,_ ” Dick’s growl is not enough to interrupt him.

“—fucking.” A moment of tense silence sputters and fizzles in between them. _I do_ not _got this._ He wants to throw up. Of course. “Of course,” he repeats out loud for further emphasis.

He thinks back on just hours ago, fuck, the days before, the cult, their mating, the, the, the _fucking claiming mark on his fucking skin._ But of course he’s número dos, why not, it’s what he’s been his whole goddamned life, chasing after crumbs and leftovers and—except this isn’t quite like that, is it? Because he’s the hammer breaking through, the shot in the dark that busts open the window.

_Slade didn’t really choose you as his partner._ And he’s the fucking idiot that went ahead and for one hot minute forgot.

“Well,” he rolls the sound that is heavy on his tongue, focuses his eyes on the cursed piece of clothing. He’s gonna burn it. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I got it from Rose.”

When their eyes meet, it’s clear that Dick doesn’t quite believe him. Tough luck. The two can be upset now.

“Stumbled onto her and we worked together for a bit,” Jason carries on, finally moving from where he’s been stuck to the floor all this time and walking to the kitchen. “We stopped by one of her daddy’s safehouses just ‘cause it was closer.” There’s the heady weight of Dick’s stare on the back of his neck. Jason acts like it doesn’t matter. “Now, you’re gonna tell me why you’re here? Or are you still pissed I have one of your boyfriend’s shirts?”

“He’s not—,” with a sigh that Jason hears perfectly, Dick approaches him again, presumably sans shirt, not like Jason has eyes on the back of his head, “you’ve been gone for a while. Just… wanted to make sure everything’s alright.”

“Peachy,” he says, opening the fridge and zeroing in on the almost empty shelves. Fuck, alright, delivery it is. He isn’t in the mood for doing groceries. “That all?”

Silence is all he gets for a reply for a long long moment. In the meantime, he closes the fridge, grabs a glass from one of the open cupboards and fills it with water from the tap. All oddly normal. When Jason turns back to the door, he sees Dick is still there, looking at him with an inscrutable light in his eyes. Yeah, good luck with that. The walls are back up at one hundred percent.

“Just,” Dick sighs again, lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. Now he won’t quite meet Jason’s gaze. “Listen, I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“You didn’t,” he hums, taking a sip and leaning against the counter. “Must admit, now that I think about it, it ain’t that surprising. You two always had a…,” he has to swallow, twice, “weird history together.”

“Yeah, well,” a single drop falls from the tap into the drain, “there really isn’t anything between… you know.”

“Listen,” it’s best to put an end to this line of conversation. Now. “I really don’t care.”

His mark twinges. _Liar._

Dick offers a tentative smile.

“Right.”

The good thing to come from this is that Jason has a plan of action. It’s perfectly clear. Things can’t stay the way they are.

_Till you all just disappear_

Slade has been for less than a minute back in Gotham and he can already feel something's off.

Not because of the quietness in the air, the stale energy in the atmosphere, the unimpressive fog. Not because of anything external, really. This is a certainty that comes from inside. From the way his instincts are on the edge and how he stays alert, ready for a fight that isn't coming and that probably won't be coming any time soon.

Under his suit, he can feel a thrum of _something_ birthing right from Jason's mark on his skin, calling for attention. He knows it's not really the mark itself but the _connection_ that ties him to his partner, the bond in its essence tugging and tugging and tugging until he has no other option but to acknowledge it. He stands half-hidden in the shadow of a billboard and reassesses his location, setting up a route in his mind. The feeling of unrest will not abide until he sees with his own eyes that Jason, his _mate,_ is alright, so if he hopes to get anything done any time soon he needs to strike that item off his list.

Find Jason, uncover what’s making the bond act up and then he’s free to go on his way again. Well. Unless something else happens to arise when they meet. He’s definitely not going to be opposed to that, and he does enjoy so very much having something that’s just for himself, a powerful secret that is _his_ to exploit.

Except that when he gets to the safehouse, the one he knows Jason last stayed in, it is empty. That, in and out of itself, isn't particularly surprising—what does raise alarm is the state of things. Everything has been methodically torn apart and cleaned. On the floors there are marks of where furniture used to be. Only an old ratty couch remains. He still ventures further into the living space, ignores the kitchen altogether and heads straight to the bedroom.

The bond is tugging in a way that's getting progressively more and more impossible to ignore, and it's enough to piss him off. He checks every hiding place he can think of and double checks until he uncovers the few ones he didn't find the first time. Not a clue or sign left.

"Fucking brat," he says to no one, going back to the couch. He _could_ waste his time checking each and every single one of Jason's many hideouts. Sooner or later he's bound to hit the jackpot. The thought of spending his night like that, though… it infuriates him.

He's really fucking angry. Above all, however, is the way the bond keeps irritating him. But it does save him time, because the way it's acting up, it going haywire, well, he gets the message loud and clear. Jason's nowhere near Gotham. And wherever he's going, nothing good will come from it. That is undeniable.

How do you find someone who doesn't want to be found? For someone like Slade, such a thing is easy.

It's only tricky when the person in hiding is as experienced and clever as Jason happens to be. This little disappearance act is clearly intentional and he's been more than careful in leaving no dust trail behind. Every channel of information Slade consults keeps giving him empty, useless answers.

By the end of the night, he's in his own safehouse, hand clasping the piece of his flesh that carries his mate's mark. It's no longer an idle twinge he can work through. No, throughout the hours the sensation kept escalating until the pain grew nearly strong enough to leave his entire arm on that side out of commission.

(Part of the pain is the one that comes from the process of healing. Healing over and over and over, healing on empty because there's no real wound yet his body keeps acting like there is.

And it's funny, because no matter where you look, bonds _aren't_ supposed to have this much power. It's funny because of how big of a confirmation it is.

And if it hurts like this on his end—what is Jason feeling right now, through their connection? Is the intensity a product of feelings that echo from one into the other until the feedback makes it grow worse and worse?)

Slade stares at the sheet of paper filled with half finished notes Jason left behind, the one from that first night. He's still angry. He's utterly pissed off.

He is, unfortunately, worried, as well.

"Where the fuck are you, brat?"

  
  


Sweat builds up at the back of his neck but Jason doesn't stop. Even if with each step he gives the mark makes him feel true agony, he cannot stop.

It won't be like this for much longer. That's his main motivation.

He'll do it for the two—the three of them. Get rid of the mark, undo the binding finality of it. Slade can thank him later. Or not. Jason doesn't care much for gratitude. He simply hates knowing that he's been forced into someone's life as much as someone has been forced into his. And it makes sense that it bothers him because he's always had hard personal opinions on things as important and direct as _consent._

His hand holding the book is sweaty but his grip is unbreakable. He pushes through the vegetation, dives deep into the wilderness of it.

He will do it. He'll end the bond.

And then he will find a way to give the fucking cultists rotting in hell a lovely, definitely violent, visit. For causing all this trouble.

There are no gods here. Just a very pissed off vigilante.

  
  


When the two day mark hits and nothing proves useful, Slade sits on his couch, beer in his hand, and proceeds to reconsider just about everything. Things like _is this fucking worth it_ and _I should let him die_ or _I'll kill him myself_ keep popping up with insistent frequency. He's got about a dozen contract offers to think of, background checks to complete and.

Next to him, his phone rings.

Slade looks at the display on the screen. Takes another sip of his beer. Thinks that he'll probably survive the death of his mate even when their connection is what it happens to be. Thinks that he didn't ask for all this trouble.

Before he fully processes his actions, he's got the phone pressed to his ear, voice a low rumble.

"Grayson."

Here's a factor he had decided to ignore, bulldozing through for his attention. And as the other person on the phone rushes through his words, Slade's realizing maybe he should've gone back to basics in his approach. 

While yes, it's true that the circumstances of the bonding and Jason's own personal secret give their situation an unnecessary degree of complication, the search could've run much smoother if he had done as he always does. Well… There's no better time than the present to correct his approach.

Thirty three minutes later they are both in their meeting point, notable lack of any other kind of company. (Slade arrived first, checked everything, every way out, in, and all the security measures. Only then he remained in one spot, waiting, but not for long.)

"It's been a while," Dick says with a small smile, idly playing with his escrima sticks, "before you went and pulled a vanishing act."

Slade hums, half sticking to shadows. "No hard feelings, I assume."

Even with the domino mask on, Grayson's electric stare pins him in place. "Your scent."

And this is how their usual song and dance finally comes to a screeching halt. Slade doesn't make the stop any easier, he's got no interest in that and he's not about to make anything comfortable for anyone.

"It's changed," Dick finishes after a while, a wicked thing that he's still keeping a smile on his lips.

"Has it now?" But he knows the answer. He's simply stalling.

And he's well aware Dick also knows this.

"You could've just told me," a shrug accompanies the words though there's a little extra there, something that's actively being repressed back inside a little box, "I would've understood."

"Told you what, precisely?"

Dick's smile grows a little wider. The strain in the gesture begins to show. "That you already had someone you wanted to mate."

His mark still hurts. It hasn't stopped doing so. The statement simply makes him more conscious of it just about when he was beginning to push it to the background.

Someone he wanted to mate? Agreeing to that would be bending the truth. What a good thing he's never been too particularly interested in sticking to it—and that he has no remorse moving on from this display too close to emotional honesty.

(He is not an idiot. He can catch the words left floating between the lines. He knows what Dick is trying to say and what he's trying to shove aside.)

"If we are done here, Grayson," Slade finally steps towards the other, shadows melting away from his figure, "I have things to do."

"Like finding Jason," humming, he idly twirls a stick in one hand, "which is why you actually showed up here today." He tosses the weapon up in the air and then catches it without looking. Slade stays eerily still. Listening. "You know I can help. I just need to know _why._ "

Only a second goes by before Slade allows himself the novelty of laughter. Here's the price to pay, of course. A small yet colossal one: the price of information.

"You already know why."

"I don't," Dick says and his lips finally press into a straight line, "not without confirmation."

"Confirmation?," his voice goes up by the end of the sound, a biting force behind it. "What is it that you want to hear, Grayson? That I have replaced you? That you aren't good enough?" He steps closer, slow and sure with movements that are menacing. "Or perhaps that I've given you all the use I could give you, so naturally I moved on to the next best thing. That this is all a game, is that what you want to hear? Will that satisfy you?"

"No," Dick breathes out, shifts his stance as he physically readies himself for a fight. "You wouldn't be here, not like this if, if any of that were true. And you wouldn't be looking for Jason. Not with such intensity."

"You are smart, Grayson. You have all the information you need to connect the pieces," his mark feels red hot, ignited. "Now, unless you wish for Jason to die again, you _are_ going to aid in his search."

That's how they seal it. There's not much left to say after.

_Black Hole Sun, won't you come_

████ is the name of the god. 

𐎧𐏁𐎠𐎹𐎰𐎡𐎹

Cut in two. Divided. 

Spread over the foam of the ocean.

████ brought down. 

Severed. Divided.

From ████ come two.

𐎧𐏁𐎠𐎹𐎰𐎡𐎹

Arise from the depths of the ocean.

Envy from above and around,

down on the earth ████ is bound,

no mercy, flesh flays in pounds.

████ burdened with power,

without it, the mountains,

without it, the hounds.

In two, ████, severed.

In two, cursed.

Mark of reunion.

Erase. Erase the union.

Stop ████ from becoming one.

Lay the insides, stir the guts.

Stop the mark from spreading,

curse the beginning of its map.

████ is the name of the god.

Erase. Cut. Torn. Divided.

Toss the salt of the blood in the ocean.

From ████ arise two.

_and wash away the rain?_

Heavy is the book in his hands.

He kneels by the altar covered in dust, dry leaves, dead bugs and cobwebs. He kneels and dry heaves, head bent low as saliva spills from his mouth. The pain is bad enough to almost make his vision black out, but he's made it, he's here, he's found it.

The place of separation. According to the book.

And if it worked once, it should do the trick twice.

With visible effort, he stands up again, clumsily wipes the surface with his forearm before dropping the book on the cold hard stone. He holds onto the edges, breathes heavily, fights through the pulsating waves of pain irradiating from Slade's mark. It's just this stupid ritual and that's it. It's not even bound to work but— 

Listen, he's come to some realizations throughout his search for this place. Some uncomfortable truths and some reluctant permissions when no substantial evidence against them could be found.

What matters is the here and now.

Here: Jason standing by an altar with moonlight raining down on him, coating him with its glow.

Now: his hands on the knife, his arms stretched out in front of him, his eyes falling closed.

His entire body is rioting against his actions. Maybe that's why he hesitates. Maybe because it's hard to ignore the coiling sensation of wrongness that hardens his gut, maybe because this won't really work or because it actually will. Maybe he doesn't really want to do this… but then again, he always ends up being forced into situations in which he has no choice but to do what he doesn't like.

Jason lifts his head, looks up at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling. He feels it, here. He isn't dense and he's been trained by the All Caste, he knows what to look for and when it's safe to admit things. He truly feels it, here, and the confirmation solidifies things yet also makes them horrifying.

Is he always supposed to be defined by—through others? Is he always supposed to come up short of being his own? So many things have been ripped from his possession: his death, his life, his fight. So little of it by actual choice. So much of it tainted by intentions not personal but of others. It's tiring. He wants to reclaim himself. He wants to—

He thinks of Slade's arms around him. How right that had felt. How he had been given his space even in their circumstances. He thinks that neither of them chose this, that they have both been forced upon each other, that it's not just his autonomy the one being violated. He thinks of the silver and gold of their marks.

He wants his _choice_ back.

He wants—

The vanishing red of his soul shudders and the knife falls from his hands, hitting with a loud clang the solidness of the altar. The moonlight above him is transfixing, has him shrouded in its energy, made to seem ethereal, edges translucent. He breathes and the light isn't disturbed, his exhale brings life to his surroundings. And that bond inside him only tightens and tightens, sweeps through his foundations like waves of a stormy ocean.

_Closer,_ it tells him, _he's getting closer._

Jason picks up the knife again and this time his hands no longer shake. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the skin of his forearms exposed, soaking the moon. 

The sigils. He needs to carve them. One on each side, and then it's done. Their connection, it'll be over.

What did the book say? After severing the bond. What did the book say?

The point of the dagger is sharp, the sharpest one he has. The first line of the first sigil does down easy on his skin, enough pressure to breach without causing extreme damage. A circle, a line, a—

His vision blacks out the moment it is done. Jason gasps without air in his lungs, nearly topples over, feels the agony of his spine being ripped from his body. Millions of claws digging into his flesh, tearing away muscle, tendons and organs, swimming in his blood, digging deeper, deeper, deeper and. His chest falls on the stone, dagger trapped underneath. From the corner of his eye there's a flash of power, reminiscent of being hit in the head until his skull cracked open, similar to broken ribs and fractured limbs, comparable with third degree burns and his body taking the worst of the explosion.

_Cl—_ the bond fizzles in spurts and static. _Almo—_

But there's no air in his lungs and his skin is cold with clammy sweat. He tries to stand up again, tries to finish, only gets as far as leaning on his marked forearm, weapon a dead weight between his fingers. Nevermind. Nevermind. Nevermind.

He _will_ see this through.

Jason can't live with himself knowing he's the crowbar digging into somebody else's freedom of choice. He can't live knowing it's been taken from him, too.

The knife goes down again. He has to bite his tongue to contain his grunts, his sounds of pain, and he's nearly blinded by the moonlight.

The book.

What did the book say?

The price to pay to go against this. The outcome of ripping in half a soul.

What did the—

Sparks go off behind his eyelids. He lets go of the dagger once more, barely stays conscious enough to hear the sound of it toppling to the ground. He needs to retrieve it. He…

A hand closes around the bleeding sigil on his forearm. He's wrapped in warmth and life.

The price to pay…

"That's enough," it's Slade's voice the one pressed to the back of his neck. The grip on his arm turns bruising, fingers digging into the sides, making his hand clamp up, causing him to shudder. "That's enough, Jason."

He wants to fight, yet he barely has enough air to breathe. So Jason stays trapped between the altar and, and, and, Slade's, no, not like that. His _mate's_ chest. At least the pain from his mark is gone. At last.

"You don't," he manages to say, though it's closer to a mumble, "you don't want this. I don't."

Slade squeezes his arm again.

"I do," he replies with ease, chasing away all double meanings yet one remains, " _I do._ And you do, too."

"You didn't," a groan tumbles through his lips, "didn't choose me."

"Neither of us did, kid."

The grip twists so a thumb presses down on the center of the sigil. It knocks out of Jason's lungs whatever little air he had managed to regain.

"Okay," a third voice says and Slade closes his eye in irritation when the body under his own turns stiff with tension. "I'm a little confused here."

Before Jason can fully finish processing the sudden shift, Slade stands again, holds him up in his arms, and he'd be pissed off about being carried except this feels right, somehow. Like this, they can look at each other in the face and the union tying up their souls rests. Like this, he can finally feel how his muscles start relaxing.

"You look like shit, old man," Jason huffs, taking in the unusual paleness, the bruises under the eye.

"This is your fault," he says though there's the hint of a smile, "for trying to end the bond and kill yourself in the process like a fucking idiot."

"Well, I'm _sorry_ for thinking about—"

"Ehem," the third voice cuts in again and both Slade and Jason turn to give its owner unimpressed stares. "Little wing," he says, forcing a smile. There are sharp notes of bitterness in his scent. "Mind explaining?"

Jason purses his lips. "Nah."

"He's my mate," Slade interrupts before Grayson gets a chance to express his agitation, clear in the lines of his raised eyebrows and the point of stiffness in his jaw. "You already knew that."

"Wait," Jason gasps, trying to move out of Slade's arms but Slade's having none of it. The bond is finally calm now that they are reunited and he's not looking forward to feeling _that_ pain any time soon.

Dick crosses his arms over his chest. He stares at them, not missing a single thing yet still struggling to form the finished picture. "I _assumed._ You never—never admitted it."

"Hold up," Jason struggles some more, "I did this for _you._ "

"What?"

"Yeah, you—," he licks his lips, closes his eyes and finally desists on fighting his way out of Slade's grip, "you two had something going on. I didn't. I mean, I am the odd one out."

His words are followed by a moment of silence. Then:

"So you ran half way across the globe to, to, to end? A claiming mark?," Dick's voice is climbing up, getting higher and higher. "I mean, we all like being dramatic, but—there are _easier_ ways."

"Not for this mark!"

" _Why not?!_ "

Slade huffs. This is getting nowhere. "Grab the fucking book, Grayson. You'll get your answers. Now we are leaving."

There. That should put a pause on things. Hopefully one long enough to give them some peace till they are all back in Gotham.

It's wild, if you ask him.

A day and a handful of hours ago, Dick Grayson thought he had a good understanding of both Slade Wilson and Jason Todd. But now that he's seen them, well, behave like an actual mated couple…

It has yet to make sense. And yes, he's read the book, basically memorized it. Actually, he read and memorized _Jason's_ careful translation of its contents. The actual book per se is a mess of amalgamations of different long dead languages, making it clear that this is nothing but a compilation of original texts that are lost. Regardless of all that, everything still is... dubious.

Because last he knew, _he_ was the one—sure, he had also been the one to call it off after just two, three very long tries, he had finally given in and admitted that it really wasn't working, no matter all the mental gymnastics he had done for their sake. Now he stands in the kitchen of Slade's safehouse watching the thing he had never achieved bloom to full life in front of his eyes. After all, Slade had willingly traveled to the middle of nowhere just to get to Jason in time.

And he's forgetting the most damned thing of all. _Their matching marks._

"So," he clears his throat, drums his fingers on top of the counter, watches how Jason plays with the edge of the bandages around his forearm. "Gods, huh?"

Jason's mouth twitches. He lowers both arms, one hand resting idly on his stomach, scratching over the fabric of Slade's shirt that he's wearing. "You don't sound too shocked."

"Oh, don't get me wrong," he keeps drumming his fingers, "I am absolutely freaking out."

With a snort, Jason shakes his head on his way to the fridge, hand still on his stomach. Like he's holding himself together.

"You're gonna explode any minute now. Let me get you—"

"I mean," Dick cuts him off and now he's gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckled intensity, " _sure,_ we all know gods are actually _a thing,_ we both _know_ Diana, and _sure,_ like Gotham isn't already fucking weird!"

"Hey now," Jason still grabs the carton of juice, stays standing in front of the fridge's open door like an idiot.

"And, and," he frees one hand so he can properly gesticulate with it, "sure! The asshole I used to hook up with is now mated to you! Like that isn't complicated!"

"Listen—"

"Sure, I _knew_ he is into alphas, why fuck _me_ if he isn't, but—"

Slade walks into the room just then. His hair is still damp from the shower and he looks definitely better than hours ago. Dick closes his mouth so quickly Jason thinks he must've pulled a muscle but then he forgets all about it when Slade walks right next to him, closes the fridge and takes the carton from his hands. It's a closeness that's beginning to feel natural and Jason isn't too sure what to do about it other than treat it as completely normal. Like it's just an everyday thing for Slade to rest his hand atop his own, both now on Jason's stomach. A simple display that it's not really simple, not at all.

Dick frowns at the sight, opens his mouth again before he comes to a dawning realization.

The changes in scent.

He gasps and the action forces him to finally acknowledge the giant elephant in the room. Jason's scent, this is the first time Dick's ever been exposed to it since coming back from, from. From the grave, really. He goes still, frozen where he's standing, mouth gaping in disbelief. He had thought, well, not just him but _everyone had thought..._

"Jason, you are—"

"Yes," Slade cuts in tersely, setting the juice on the counter. Jason isn't quite looking at either of them.

One would think this revelation would make the situation an easier one. One would be wrong.

This?

This complicates _everything._


End file.
